Star Trek :: Imbroglio
by MekQuarrie
Summary: The Federation is breaking, nearly shattered by the 'Scimitar' attack on Earth. What needs to be done to protect what is left? And who could possibly rise to the challenge? :: Some thoughts on events following 'ST: Nemesis'. :: 'Great Wave' image reworked from Wikimedia Commons.
1. Chapter 1

"Come back for me in two hours."

Picard waved away his personal driver in the smoothly floating vehicle and turned back to the loose collection of prefabricated buildings. It was not exactly a housing project, it was more of a pencil draft on a piece of scrap parchment.

He looked up at the grey sky which benefitted from global weather control but none of the pollution protection. It seemed odd that someone would be burning fuels in any part of modern Earth, but there were always dirty corners in the cleanest of houses.

Picard checked that he was at the correct intersection and counted along the featureless, unmarked doors. He pressed the analogue door-button and waited.

It was the most familiar of faces, but also the most impossible to understand. "B4? It's me. Jean Luc."

The grey skin, so like and yet unlike his lifelong friend, caused a warmth to flash briefly within him. "Come in, Captain Picard." The blank face turned to the side and indicated that he should enter. "I understand you have been promoted to Fleet Captain. A much deserved honor." B4 gestured into the apartment.

Picard entered, awkwardly holding his jacket open, not sure whether to remove it or keep it on. He looked briefly around the gloom of the small apartment. There were no sub-divisions, just areas of floor, and very little lighting. B4 was nowhere near as socialized as his brother had been. But there were signs of interest in the concepts of family and crew. A few printed out pictures adhered to one wall: sea-craft, early NASA personnel, odd wildlife, and former crew mates.

"Something of a compromise," Picard replied. "I wanted to stay on a ship - I've lived my life in space - they wanted to second me to the Executive of Starfleet. A lot of meetings, but thankfully I'm away on business a lot too."

"You have a shrewd character, Fleet Captain," B4 said. "This role will suit you." He looked up at the ceiling and the inactive air conditioning ducts. "I would adjust the light and heat for your comfort, but you have arrived at a rationed hour."

Picard raised his eyebrows. "Power shortages in this day and age?"

"Not a lack in technology Fleet Captain. A lack of community will. My fellow residents - the local tenants - cannot agree an energy plan among themselves. Nor with the general supplier. There is a lot of shouting, particularly from the young men and women." He attempted a shrug. "All the services in the project area have been run down to a basic level."

Before Picard could reply, B4 gestured to the center of the room where a single table was flanked by two simple chairs. "A fellow resident leant me this furniture for your visit. I forget his name, but he insisted on regularly referring to me as 'neighbor'. Between mouthfuls of stimulant drink. I hope not to talk him too much when his furniture has been returned."

Picard thought of his own peculiar neighbors and their regular infringement on his family property. There was something to be said for isolation, but this situation seemed intolerable. "I'm sorry, B4. I haven't visited as much as I had hoped. This part of France is so close to where I live, and yet so far away. In fact, it was easier for me to come here directly from ISS-23."

"I understand, Fleet Captain," B4 nodded curtly. "There are duties. Then there is life. And there is opportunity, the random chance that you like to call good fortune. All conspire to confound the best of intentions." He pored heavily over the chess pieces laid out in a classic encounter.

"Yes," Picard sighed. "The best laid plans of mice and men." He looked at the board and pieces, probably a holo-set rather than full-on replicated pieces. A good approximation of hand-turned ebony wood and ancient ivory, characters chosen from Alice and the 'Wonderland' stories.

"Indeed. Your Steinbeck has the measure of the dilemma."

"And a British poet before him. What is the opening?" He pointed to the barely constructed strategy.

"A variation on Schmidt. I hope to strengthen his fundamental weakness by careful consideration of several million endpoints."

"Excellent. Myself, I start with the Scotch Game and go downhill from there." He smiled modestly and tried to catch B4's glance. There was no reaction. He nodded and cleared his throat. "Where will you publish?"

"Publish? I had only thought of this as an exercise. Would there be interest in such a theory?"

"There is always interest in ideas, B4. There's always a place for broader thought. I can send you the name of a journal that will publish a letter if you note your solution."

B4 thought stiffly. "That creates something close to appeal in me. We should make it so." He blinked.

"I would be delighted." Picard returned to the remains of the game.

B4 paused and kept staring at Picard. He raised his eyebrows.

"It would please me too," Picard continued, awkwardly.

B4 raised his eyebrows and pulled in his cheeks like a smile. "You missed my humorous reference, Fleet Captain." B4 shook his head stiffly. "Of course, I was too flat in my delivery."

Picard blinked. "Yes, of course." He had become bored of the phrase over the years, rarely used it now. "We shall make it so." He forced a chuckle and looked out of the apartment window where crows fought over carrion.

There was a pause, and then another pause. Then they both started to talk.

"I saved a replicator token..."

"After the 'Scimitar' explosion…"

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, you first."

"The 'Scimitar'?"

"The replicator?"

"I…"

"I…"

They both stopped and looked down. The silence was filled only by the creaking of the heating pipes and the distant murmur of other people in the same building. The sounds of arguing and laughter diffused thru.

"Tea? Earl Grey? Hot?" B4 attempted to start his half of the conversation again.

"Make it so," Picard nodded with a sad smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Crusher pushed the badly synthesized potato mash around his plate. He was seriously thinking about contacting his mother. And he wanted a drink.

He had gone to great lengths to arrange a ship's delegation to the 'Basics' conference at Daystrom Foundation, but he had ended up being the only person who wanted to leave the USS _Salamis_ on a furlough. Then he had arrived in Barcelona and been even more disappointed. Everyone here was so boring.

"Can we sit here?" a cheerful voice said from behind.

He was about to pick up the tray and indicate that he was ready to leave when he noticed that the woman speaking to him was particularly attractive and that her companion was equally and almost identically notable.

"No problem. I only got started, but take a seat. I won't be any trouble." He pointed to the bench opposite him and let the frown disappear from his face. "Can I ask, are you two young ladies related?"

They giggled as they sat opposite and exchanged a look that showed they had been asked this on many occasions.

"Jenn says we're obviously twins. But people still ask. I say that no two people are ever identical." They laughed politely and started to eat thin looking crackers. He noted that they were wearing plain white uniforms with no distinguishing marks, apart from a thin black diamond on each shoulder.

Crusher forced some of the potato mash into his mouth, then quickly chewed it down as he attempted to talk. "I could tell you a story about that. But I think it's classified."

"Really?" asked the one known as Jenn. She leaned forward and smiled. "Tell us as much as you can."

"He's only kidding, Jenn", said the sister without meeting his gaze. "It's called conversation." She put another frail wafer in her mouth and let it melt on her tongue.

"My sister is very sceptical about everything. It's called cynicism. Right, Fran?"

Wesley leaned forward in mock conspiracy. "Oh. It's true," he said. "But a lot of those missions are classified."

"You work off-world?" asked Jenn. "What station? Not Jupiter? I heard Jupiter Station was the pits. Good thing they're closing it down. I'd fire a couple of those quantum torpedoes into it and say 'so long'." She covered her mouth to cover an evil little laugh. Her sister sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I was on a ship," Crusher replied. "Starfleet." He tried to play it cool. He liked the idea of impressing these two beautiful sisters in as subtle a way as possible. "The USS _Enterprise_."

"No way," said Fran glancing sideways.

"Yes. I wasn't one of the ordinary crew, though. More of an adviser."

Jenn frowned and wiped crumbs from her lower lip. "Wasn't that Kirk's ship? You don't look old enough." Her gaze seemed to analyze Crusher like a military tricorder.

Fran sighed. "Don't be stupid, Jenn. There's been more than one _Enterprise_."

"Don't talk to me like that, Fran. I know. I'm just starting at the beginning. But I'm sure I heard Kirk came back to life. He was trapped in some sort of space phenomenon."

Fran slapped her sister's arm in disgust. "You read the wrong news stories, Jenn. Kirk would be well over a hundred by now. I don't even think the Vulcan is still alive."

"Oh Spock? He's still alive," Crusher interjected. Both sisters turned to scowl at him. "I heard he went back to Romulus."

"No, he was a Vulcan," Jenn corrected. "Why would he go to Romulus? They hate everyone there. Even each other."

Crusher resisted the urge to explain in detail how much of a know-it-all he really was. He shrugged and attempted to spear some more mash. "Just what I heard," he mumbled.

"Jenn can show you her collection of conspiracy articles later," said Fran. "She needs to focus on lunch and then get back to the heuristics." She patted the back of her sister's hand. "Iterative collapse can be such a bore." Jenn's shoulders sagged.

"Ah. Division by zero. Use the Noon Side Step." Crusher pointed his fork at Jenn without looking up.

Both sisters went quiet. Crusher ate his food then felt a little worried. He looked up. Both were frowning at each other.

"Noon's work leads you astray," sighed Jenn. "Brilliant but largely discredited."

Fran leaned forward tapping the table with a cracker. "Totally discredited. A bully and a eugenic bio-fascist." She seemed more intense than before.

Crusher had to laugh. He spluttered a little and wiped a tiny morsel of mash from his top lip. "Where'd you learn that?" he laughed. He met Fran's angry look and nodded. "Online chatroom? Underground pamphleteers?"

"There's no need to laugh," Fran replied firmly. "Maybe you need to keep up on the literature yourself? Hundreds of journal citations and most commentators will put Noon's work in a box with Schrödinger's cat. Out of sight. And probably dead."

Crusher chuckled. He could see that Jenn was used to this discussion, had probably given up on it long ago. "What does that even mean?" he laughed. "Droll words. And Schrödinger's cat was most definitely not dead."

"I'm more of a reptile person," said Jenn quietly. She wiped her hands together and arranged her plate and napkin as if to leave.

"Noon started in illegal genetic experiments and moved backwards into robotics," said Fran. "We gave up on androids centuries ago." She too arranged the remains of her dish as if to go. She looked sideways to her sister with a "let's go" expression.

Crusher felt a little panicked. He had met two actual people with a spark of personality. And they were pretty too. "Listen," he said. "Maybe we got off to a bad start there. Why don't we meet up after the poster session? I know a bit about Noon's later work." Fran and Jenn stood politely, ready to leave. Other delegates were beginning to stream away. "It…" He struggled for the word. Then it came to him clearly. "It... redeems a lot of his earlier mistakes."


	3. Chapter 3

Reginald Barclay was at a crossroads, both literally and figuratively. The team from the confidence building training school were already jogging away up the hill along the right hand path in the forest. To the left, a narrower path lead downhill to a small sparkling pond. The heavy pack and light weapons on his back were already making him overheat and feel thirsty after half an hour.

It was his last chance to remain in uniform. Starfleet were looking for properly trained people and that meant a sustained level of fitness. The intellectuals were fleeing to the institutions and the endowment schools which would have suited Barclay, but he had connections and access in Starfleet. He knew he could not just throw that away.

He watched as a long frog leaped from a rock in the water to a clump of vegetation at the edge of the pool. He admired the creature's elegant lines, but did not envy its constant need to survive. His thoughts turned back to whether he would enjoy constantly struggling to survive.

The air over the water moved slowly over him in a cooling breeze then stiffened and stood still in a totally unnatural way. A figure shimmered into focus beside him in a way consistent with a holographic presence.

"Deanna?" he whispered. "My princess…" Although this synthetic figure was the older, cleverer more mature (and more married) Troi, she was wearing the flowing white satin dress from one of his holodex princess fantasies.

"We need to escape Reginald. This is our chance to get away and live the life you deserve. The life we deserve."

"I've always wanted you to give me a ring," she twinkled. He felt a little embarrassed at her over-programmed enthusiasm, even with no-one else present. "Now I want to give you a ring."

Barclay was slightly surprised at the dialogue. It wasn't something he had ever introduced to his exchanges on the _Enterprise_ holodeck.

She reached out with a little box. He leaned forward and looked at the material and the design, but before he could comment she grabbed at his collar and held the box against his throat.

"Energize," she said calmly.

 **:::**

You are so predictable," said Zimmerman. "What if I had been a Dominion spy or a Romulan pirate? You would have been have way across the galaxy by now in a cage with little or no amenities."

"I-I knew something was wr-wrong," Barclay stammered. "It was so obviously a story l-lifted from a holodex p-program."

"Yes it was," Zimmerman nodded. "But most people could have written the story for you. Maybe even a white rabbit with a pocket watch?"

"I was on an official re-education program. Back to the wilds. You can't kidnap Starfleet personnel from official programs."

"Oh, spare me the complaining, Barclay. I've already remembered why we didn't get on. You were dodging your responsibilities by diverting to the pond. You were caught out fair and square."

"What n-now, then?" Barclay felt a twinge of anger toward his former mentor. "A return in disgrace. J-just for taking a break?" He rubbed his wrists. His circulation was running a little cold. A sure sign of nerves. Or fear.

"I'm not reduced to parlor games, Barclay. That would have been too easy. I'm aware of an opportunity." He tapped the tricorder monocle clenched in his right eye and tutted.

"That's not a word you use a lot." Barclay felt his faculties coming together. He began to assess the situation. Was this even the Dr. Zimmerman he knew? It couldn't be the _Voyager_ Emergency Medical Hologram, because - well - that had ended badly. Very badly indeed. But who knew the limits of Zimmerman's scheming?

Zimmerman removed the monocle and rolled it between the fingers of his left hand. He was thinking carefully about something. Barclay thought he might be about to reveal something.

"You really ought to get out more," said Zimmerman with reference to nothing in particular.

Barclay snorted, adjusting his sleeves and all the other creases of his uniform that felt out of place. "I couldn't really have been any more outdoors. Mars is still classified as "wild" despite the 'forming.

Zimmerman rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Are you going to be like this the whole time, Barclay? I'm not sure I have the patience for it."

"What time, Dr. Zimmerman? I'm not going anywhere." Barclay felt nervous. He looked around at the technology in the room. He was assessing what could be used to escape or signal for help.

"Calm down, Barclay. You'll get whatever you want. Just stay calm." He put his hands on Barclay's shoulders. Barclay recognized the technique from his time working on Jupiter Station

"This is why I had to stop working for you, Dr. Zimmerman. After the _Enterprise_ missions, It was right to work with you. I appreciated it; the resources, everything."

Zimmerman looked surprised. "Of course you were grateful. Your own talent could shine there. Out front. Instead of skulking around in the background on a starship, all those egos crashing around."

"B-but I just s-substituted one set of egos f-for another." Barclay tried not to quiver.

Zimmerman closed his eyes and sighed. "Patience, Barclay. Reginald, please. There will be plenty of space for you to think."

Barclay swung his legs around and let his feet drop onto the floor. "I'm not going back to Jupiter Station." He pointed to a hologram spinning within a gold frame. "The air was so short. And the creaking of the hull kept me awake at night. I kept thinking it would burst open at any minute."

"You don't have to worry on that front, Reginald." He pointed to an over-stylized mini-replicator on the side bench. "Get yourself a beverage."

Barclay looked up at Zimmerman, then looked down and tried to walk normally to the dispenser. "Water. Michigan Spring," he whispered. Zimmerman audibly flinched as the glass materialized.

"You've read the chat-boards?"

Barclay sipped the water. It was crisp and sweet. He had certainly read all the chat-boards. He had contributed carefully to a number of them as the "planktonmanomega" sock-puppet. He sipped the water again and turned to his former boss.

"So, tell me about the strike off."


End file.
